Kai stood alone in the dimness of the props corner, fingers trembling slightly as he slipped the real knife into place. The cold steel slid under the foam sheath, replacing the harmless prop with something that shimmered with danger. His breath hitched—half thrill, half terror.
A footstep behind him.
Kai froze, spine stiff, guilt crackling down his nerves.
"Mr. Kai?" a worker's voice called.
Kai nearly jumped out of his skin.
When he turned, the man was simply smiling, clipboard tucked under his arm.
"The set is awaiting your presence."
Kai forced his frantic heart to calm. Then—mask on—he gifted the man a delicate, weary smile.
"Yes… yes, I'm coming. I was just feeling a bit off."
His tone melted into something gentle, ethereal—his signature.
The worker nodded and left.
Kai exhaled sharply, one hand flying to his chest.
That was close. Too close.
But then his mind drifted to Tristan.
Tall.
Broad-shouldered.
Red hair tousled in that infuriatingly perfect, rebellious way.
Those crystalline blue eyes—bright enough to carve someone open without a blade.
Kai swallowed.
Could he actually hurt him?
Even a little?
His fingers curled, nails brushing the fabric near the hidden knife.
It's nothing, he whispered to himself.
A scratch. A small scene. And afterward—
Tristan would finally look at him.
Finally see him.
Not that cold, boring assistant.
The assistant—
Kai's jaw locked when he spotted Isidore across the room flipping through files, glasses glinting under the studio lights. Calm. Composed. Completely unaware.
Kai's lips twisted.
He walked past Isidore with deliberate grace—then sharply rammed his shoulder into him.
Isidore stumbled back, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose.
"Don't you have eyes?" he snapped.
Kai immediately lifted a hand to his shoulder, gasping like a Victorian maiden struck by a hurricane.
"Oh— he hit me!"
Isidore stared, expression halfway between disgust and disbelief.
"How can someone be this dramatic…" he muttered.
But Kai raised his voice shamelessly, tears practically shimmering.
"He crashed into me and now he's scolding me…!"
Tristan arrived like a gust of warm wind, concern sharp in his eyes.
"What happened?" he asked Isidore, stepping closer—too close—in front of Kai.
His voice softened, gentled just for him.
"Does anything hurt, dear?"
Isidore stiffened.
His cheeks even warmed—but he immediately whipped his head away.
"It's none of your business."
Kai felt something snap.
Something ugly.
Something green.
He pointed to his own shoulder.
"Mr. Ashford, please look at this. It hurts. It might have bruised—"
"You can handle this on your own," Tristan said, barely glancing at him.
"Don't you have hands?"
Kai blinked—humiliated.
"But so does he," Kai argued desperately.
"So why—"
"His hands are delicate," Tristan said simply.
Isidore barked instantly.
"Stay away from me, you bastard!"
This time, it was Tristan who froze—mouth falling open.
Kai trembled with disbelief.
That assistant yelled at Tristan Ashford?
And Tristan just… took it?
Isidore spun on his heel and left.
Tristan's hand hovered in the air.
"Isidore…"
Kai lunged forward, gripping Tristan's shoulder.
Tristan went rigid like he'd been touched by ice.
"Why are you wasting time on someone like him?" Kai whispered, voice cracking.
"He doesn't like you. He doesn't even—"
"He will," Tristan said quietly.
"One day. He will."
Before Kai could speak, Tristan was gone, chasing after Isidore like a desperate, lovesick wolf.
Kai stood alone in the middle of the set—rage boiling, humiliation burning.
The director clapped once.
"Everyone take your positions!"
Kai's body jerked at the command.
Slowly, mechanically, he walked toward the center of the scene.
His gaze flicked to the worker holding the prop knife. But it isn't prop at all.
A small smile curled on his lips.
He glanced toward the far end—where Isidore spoke with Jesper, calm as ever, unaware of how close danger stood.
Kai turned sharply, jealousy slicing through him.
We'll see who Tristan looks at first, Kai promised.
Everyone moved to their marks.
The lights intensified.
The director raised his megaphone.
Kai steadied his breath.
He could do this.
He would do this.
For attention.
For fame.
For Tristan Ashford.
The camera rolled.
The blade waited.
And Kai smiled—because the scene was about to begin.
The green screens glowed like enormous emerald walls, casting ghostlight across the entire set. Spotlights blazed down from steel rafters. Cameras rolled into position. The air smelled faintly of metal and hot wiring—electric, tense, expectant.
The director lifted his hand.
"Action!"
Tristan stepped into the frame, transformed completely.
His clothes were ragged, dust-stained, torn at the shoulder.
His hair was disheveled, fiery strands falling over his brow.
He looked like a warrior who had crawled through deserts and storms, a man shaped by vengeance and exhaustion.
Every camera adored him instantly.
Across from him, Kai rose from the rubble set-piece, playing the role of Tristan's betrayed best friend. In the script, the two had once been brothers-by-choice—until treachery split them apart.
Now came the confrontation.
Tristan advanced with a weary rage, gripping the blade—unaware that in Kai's costume, the real knife waited like a coiled serpent.
"You should've never crossed me," Tristan growled, voice low, raw, perfect for the scene.
Kai lowered his head, trembling with a mixture of real fear and calculated drama.
"Do it," he whispered. "Take your revenge."
The script said Tristan was supposed to hesitate.
To falter.
To drop the weapon.
And he did.
He let the blade slip through his fingers, eyes flickering with agony and restraint.
"I can't…" Tristan breathed. "Because—damn it—we spent half our lives together. Like brothers."
Kai lifted his face.
A soft, aching smile touched his lips.
"Yes," he said gently. "That's why you can't kill me."
Tristan's expression wavered with wounded affection.
Kai stepped closer.
The cameras slid in.
The green screen hummed.
Forgiveness was the next beat.
Tristan moved forward, his chest rising and falling with emotion.
Kai mirrored him—because in reality, Kai's heart was pounding wildly, begging him to follow the plan, begging him to take what should've been his all along.
They embraced.
In the storyline? A brotherly reconciliation.
In reality? The perfect opportunity.
Kai pressed his cheek against Tristan's shoulder.
Just do it. It's not too hard, he whispered to himself.
He won't die.
Tristan whispered his line, soft as a vow.
"I'm sorry… but from now on, we fight together. For peace."
Kai's fingers curled around the hidden handle.
He inhaled.
He lifted both hands—
And drove the knife forward.
BOOM.
A sickening thud.
A crack of breath cut short.
Tristan's eyes went wide.
For a second, no one moved.
Everyone thought it was acting.
Flawless acting.
Award-winning acting.
Even Isidore wasn't watching—he was flipping through a schedule Zayn handed him.
Zayn himself was reviewing the next set arrangement.
Jesper was tracking time on his tablet.
Then Tristan staggered back, hand flying to his torso.
A dark bloom spread across his torn shirt.
Kai dropped the knife.
His lips parted in a tiny gasp.
He stumbled backward, letting panic shimmer in his eyes—an expertly rehearsed innocence.
The blade hit the floor with a metallic clang.
The director blinked, then raised his megaphone.
"Cut! CUT! Wait—what is that? That wasn't in the script."
Nothing.
Tristan didn't rise.
He didn't move.
He fell to one knee, breath hitching sharply.
Jesper's head snapped up.
So did Zayn's.
The director barked again, louder, irritation cracking his voice.
"Why is there too much blood? Who added that?!"
But the moment a nearby worker crouched beside Tristan, he froze.
"Mr. Ashford…? The director says—"
Then he saw it.
The splatter.
The bubbling red.
The pain twisting Tristan's face.
The worker's eyes exploded wide.
"He's really bleeding!"
That shout detonated the entire set.
Crew members bolted from their seats.
Assistants spilled coffee.
Cameras lurched.
Lights quivered overhead.
The director screamed, "Everyone step back!"
But the chaos already rippled through every corner.
Isidore blinked up, confused.
Zayn grabbed his arm.
Then they both saw Tristan—
Clutching his torso.
Blood slipping between his fingers.
Color draining from his lips.
Zayn's voice cracked.
"He's really hurt."
Isidore stared, stunned.
"But… how is that possible? It—it was a prop knife."
Meanwhile, Jesper spun at the sound of Tristan's strangled breath—only for his gaze to collide with the driver standing by the equipment crates.
The man didn't flinch.
Didn't move.
Didn't even pretend to look concerned.
He simply watched the chaos with a calmness so unnatural it made the hair at Jesper's nape rise. His face was blank, almost eerily serene, like someone observing rain rather than a bleeding actor collapsing to the floor.
For a split second, Jesper's steps faltered.
How can he stand there like that…?
The thought flashed sharp and fast, but there was no time to dwell on it.
Tristan swayed.
Jesper's heart dropped.
He tore his gaze away from the driver and sprinted toward Tristan, boots scraping the studio floor, voice cracking with urgency.
"Mr. Ashford, the car is ready—we need to get you to the hospital immediately."
Tristan raised his head, a faint, almost embarrassed smile appearing.
"It doesn't hurt… that much."
Jesper looked like he was about to strike him.
"You are bleeding, Mr. Ashford! How can you say that?!"
Zayn arrived beside him.
"I already called the doctor. On three—lift him."
Zayn slung Tristan's arm over his shoulder.
Jesper did the same on the other side.
Tristan grunted.
"I can walk—"
"Stay still!" Zayn snapped. "You're losing blood."
Tristan's knees buckled.
His vision blurred.
His body sagged.
Isidore stepped forward involuntarily, eyes widened, throat tight—from fear or something far more complicated.
He tried to steady his breathing, but the sight of blood made the room tilt.
He felt cold.
Light-headed.
He barked at the crew through clenched teeth.
"How did this even happen?!"
Workers shook their heads.
"We know nothing—everything was normal—we don't understand—"
Kai stood frozen, both hands trembling violently.
He had done it.
But seeing Tristan bleed—real blood, real pain—sent a cold shock slicing down his spine.
Isidore stormed toward Kai, shadows gathering in his expression.
"How did you get a real knife?"
Kai's lips quivered.
"I—I don't know… I didn't— It was the knife they gave me! I swear I was just acting!"
Isidore stared at the blade lying on the ground—its edge stained.
A tremor passed through him.
His fingers shook.
His knees wavered.
Jesper rushed back after helping Tristan into the car.
His eyes darted to Isidore.
"Mr. Isidore… are you feeling alright?"
"I—I'm fine," Isidore said, though he clearly wasn't.
The doctor had warned him.
Stress. Shock. Panic.
Avoid them.
But the blood—the scene—the suddenness—it all slammed into him like a wave.
He sat heavily in a nearby chair.
His heartbeat thundered in his ears.
He dialed Leon number, with shaking hands.
"Take me home," he whispered.
Jesper turned his attention to Kai next.
He guided the trembling actor to a chair, wrapped a blanket around his shoulders.
Kai's voice cracked.
"Will Mr. Ashford… be alright?"
Jesper sighed.
"The wound wasn't deep… but he lost blood. And shock can be dangerous."
Kai lowered his eyes, fumbling his fingers, guilt and fear twisting him apart.
Jesper's phone buzzed.
He answered quickly—words exchanged, short and clipped.
Then he left too.
The set finally fell silent.
Everything had gone according to the plan.
The car lurched forward, tires spitting gravel as it sped out of the studio lot.
Tristan was slumped against the leather seat, breath shallow, sweat beading along in his hairline.
Zayn sat beside him, one arm braced around Tristan's shoulders, the other pressing a folded handkerchief hard against the bleeding wound.
"Hold still," Zayn muttered, voice taut. "How did that even happen, Mr. Ashford?"
Tristan winced, jaw tightening.
"I don't know," he breathed out. "Damnit— it hurts."
Zayn pressed firmer. Tristan hissed.
"Do not close your eyes," Zayn ordered. "You will be alright."
"Oh?" Tristan exhaled a breathless laugh. "How can I stay alive when he didn't even flinch"
Zayn blinked. "Whose?"
"Isidore," Tristan whispered dramatically, as if delivering his last confession. "He didn't even flinch. I got stabbed, Zayn. Stabbed. And that man just—stood there. Stone cold. Heartless."
Zayn clenched his teeth.
"Stop speaking gibberish, Mr. Ashford."
Tristan let his head roll back, groaning with theatrical despair.
"Alright, alright—just kidding," he muttered, as if he weren't bleeding into Zayn's handkerchief.
Zayn stared at him, incredulous.
"How can you be so calm after being stabbed?"
Tristan's lips curled faintly, eyes half-lidded.
"It would've been much better if Isidore stabbed me himself," he murmured. "At least then it'd be poetic."
"Stop it," Zayn barked, louder this time.
Tristan sighed as if Zayn was the unreasonable one.
"Fine. Fine. No more jokes. It just…hurts."
A shaky breath.
Another wince.
The faintest flicker of stubborn, wounded pride.
And the car sped on—toward the hospital, toward answers, toward consequences waiting like wolves at the door.